


Thanksgiving Nightmare

by Kymopoleia



Series: Voltron: Questionable and Uncomfortable [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bondage, Gen, Knifeplay, heed the warnings, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 18:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8458924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kymopoleia/pseuds/Kymopoleia
Summary: i don't suggest reading this





	

**Author's Note:**

> i probably could have written this better but i don't want to and i'm gross  
> i had an idea at 9 in the morning nov 1 and HAD to get it out in text and  
> someone rec me a priest i need some ideas for gore/noncon that are actually not sucky

Waking up, on the best of days, is a bad experience. There’s lots of groaning and pleas for more time, fumbling and sleepily blinking the bad feelings away. There was sometimes a moment of ‘I can’t go on’, but that was usually between moments of general anxiety and half-kidding self-depreciating humor.

This time, however, that feeling didn’t end.

Lance’s first realization was that he was tied down. And firmly, at that, arms tight behind his back and palms pressed together between his shoulder blades. The slightest shift sends throbs of dull pain through stiff muscles, showing that he’d been this way for a long time. What the fuck?

Shifting also ends up showing that it wasn’t the only place where rope was- joy. There was an intricate setup going from the arm bindings and crossing over his chest and crotch, a knot rubbing over his clit, and then a few more loops basically forcing him to be crouched over with the way they constrained his legs. All he could move was a fraction of an inch with his neck, which brought him eye to eye with… Shiro?

The black paladin was startlingly fully clothed, leaning comfortably in his chair with his hands clasped beneath his chin. It looked like he was sitting at a grand table, thick, real wood and real silverware and a plate of fine china in front of him. There was a tie knotted smoothly and a starched dress shirt, even an expensive looking vest. It was so bizarre, so against what he was expecting, that all Lance can do for a second is shift uncomfortably and make a tiny whining noise.

“Is everyone ready to say grace?” Shiro asks, and, worse still, the other three paladins respond. He nods and smiles and bows his head, and it suddenly connects in Lance’s head that this was thanksgiving. But instead of staring longingly at the turkey, he… didn’t really want to know or think about what he was actually doing.

“On this blessed holiday,” Shiro begins, interrupted by Keith snickering and then shooting a glare. “We have gathered to thank…” He pauses again, trying to find the right words. “Voltron, and our altean forefathers, for giving us the means to attempt to kick Zarkon’s plate-armored furry ass. Amen?”

There’s a chorus of murmured agreements. “I, personally, am thankful for this beautiful suit.” Shiro continues, smile blinding and hands shifting to pet down the vest.

“I’m thankful for the chance to avoid galran fleets for a night,” Pidge continues the train, sounding like she was to his left. “Because we really needed this break.”

“Seconded.” Hunk sounds like he’s behind Lance, and the position of kneeling with his legs spread implies that Hunk has a full view of his junk, can see how he’s blushing and shifting and beginning to get wet from the constant contact. More than that, Hunk is ignoring it. “I’m thankful for you guys, and having the best friends I could have imagined.”

“Well, I’m just thankful for the turkey in front of us. Can we eat yet? I’m starving.” And there was Keith, ending the casual sentimentality with a blunt ‘fuck you’ to polite society. Good ol’ Keith. Lance spends so long rolling his eyes that he almost forgets who he is in the situation, almost forgetting the ball gag between his lips and the rope burns on what felt like all of him.

“Of course, you may cut into it first.” Shiro nods, eyes going half-lidded and meeting Lance’s. That makes him freeze as much as the sound of wood scraping on wood, as the sound of metal clanking, as the feel of something suddenly entering his personal bubble.

All eyes were on him. If it weren’t for the general fact that everyone wanted a piece of the thanksgiving turkeys, it would be that he could feel them. He couldn’t say anything, only wriggle and keen helplessly as a shadow began to loom.

What might be a fork presses against his thigh first, cold and hard and pointy. Then it presses in further, sending a shiver down his spine and threatening to break skin.

Then the real hell begins.

At first it was a small wince from the pain. Then he realized it. There was a knife, an insanely sharp one at that, being slowly sawed through the skin of his thigh. Blood starts to bubble up and run, wetting the freezing skin and sending him into a straight panic.

“Shiro, wait.” Pidge’s voice breaks the silence and wet noises of knife on skin, breaks Lance’s internal screaming. “That turkey is too thin. We’ll never be satisfied with it like that.”

Lance tries to catch Shiro’s eyes again, plead like a wild bird in front of the president himself for amnesty. Instead, Shiro smiles and stands. “Why don’t we do a little DIY?”

“What, hand stuff the turkey?” Hunk speaks up, and Lance suddenly feels like dying. A hand falls to his ass, rubbing and thumbing the cheeks even further apart. “No offense, but I don’t want to shove my hand up there. I’ve had my fair share of fisting turkeys.”

Lance chokes. How obvious could they be? They knew that they were doing this to a real person, weren’t they?

“That’s why we aren’t shoving our hands into it. That would be too messy, and we’re all dressed up so nicely. No, I was thinking we could use something else.”

Shiro pops his buckle and all color drains out of Lance’s face.

“Oh! Nice idea man.” Hunk laughs. Keith sets down the knife- Lance can just see it out of the corner of his eye, see the dark red drip and fall onto the table. He wants to vomit.

Shiro moves out of his sight as the platter he was apparently displayed on is yanked back sharply, sending him face-first into the metal and his ass even higher in the air. The only thought left in Lance’s brain is ‘what the fuck’, and even that is tainted as tears start to bubble up.

A thumb pulls the rope acting like a thong, but worse, out of the way and dips in, coming back wet. Lance quivers and wonders how he could possibly get out of this now, but all logic tells him that he simply isn’t.

Something thick and blunt presses against him after that, and the stretch is relentless as what he assumes is a cock breaches into his space. He chokes again, thighs quivering and still bleeding as he’s given no time to accommodate. Then there’s even a zipper rubbing against the sensitive skin, cold against him.

“Tight.” Shiro comments, his metal hand falling to hook in the rope stretching from Lance’s arms to his ass, the one with the inappropriately placed knot. “We picked a good one.”

Lance’s face burns in shame and he prays for the night to be over.

Shiro takes his time, thrusting and adjusting Lance leisurely. Sometimes there’s sounds like lips smacking together and sucking and giggling, and Lance can’t help but guess that there’s kissing happening over him. By the time Shiro buries himself and cums in Lance, he’s practically begging to actually get eaten at this point.

Then someone else, bigger and heavier and hotter, presses up into his space and a fresh wave of tears start up.

The rest pass in a blur, each of the paladins filling Lance with load of burning cum and squeezing, pinching, and slapping whatever free skin they found. He felt disgusted with himself before Pidge took her place behind him, like an honest slab of meat thrown on the table.

And then, as Shiro had lined himself up for the third round, Lance woke up.

He wasn’t tied up on a big table, the other paladins weren’t fucking him or staring him down hungrily. He was just wearing Shiro’s spare lion pajama shirt and some socks, and the reality of why he was like that and the vague terror from his nightmare clash in his brain. Irrational fear and hyper-realistic dream versus sweet sex and being carried to a clean bed.

Fuck, he was really really tired. And messed up.

And alone in bed.

“Lance?” The voice comes from the doorway, and Lance startles, eyes wide and fingers clawing into the bed covers. Wait… oh. It was just Shiro. Shiro, shirtless, barefoot, in pajama pants and holding a glass of not-orange juice.

Lance laughs awkwardly and relaxes. “Hey.”

“Are you okay? What spooked you?”

Lance shakes his head and tucks his feet under himself as he reaches for the glass. “Weird dream, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Shiro gives him a pointed look and holds the glass hostage. “Tell me.”

Lance bites his lip before resigning himself to his fate. “It was really messed up.”

“Good messed up or bad messed up?”

“None of the team treated me like a real person. I was… a thing. Used.” He shivered. Shiro sat down and rubbed his knuckles over Lance’s bare arm.

“Did you feel like that last night?”

“What? No, we were all together. It was nice.” Lance shrugs.

“Be honest with me. Dreams are the mind’s way of dealing with fears. I would know.” Shiro sips the juice and looked at him pointedly.

Lance closes his eyes and shrugs. “Fine. Maybe I felt a little ignored for a bit because of…” He stole the glass and drank rather than explain.

Shiro sighed and leaned back. “We have all morning to talk about it.”

**Author's Note:**

> it was all a dream because i'm a chicken and couldn't write anymore  
> i'm on tumblr at spookyghostnerd and mango-chess and i do commissions, in case u like this sort of thing and want to see if i can make something that isn't AWFUL


End file.
